


Four Times Wade Tried to Seduce Nate and One Time He Gave Up

by Quakey (Quak3y)



Category: Cable and Deadpool
Genre: 5+1 Things (except 4+1 because I couldn't think of a fifth), Clothed Sex, Crossdressing, M/M, Neither Wade nor I can keep our language clean, Wade's skin self-hatred trope thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 21:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20298349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quak3y/pseuds/Quakey
Summary: Wade knows he’s not sexy, but he’s trying his best.





	1. Marvel Girl

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a silly, happy little thing. Happy birthday, [SenkoWakimarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin)!

Cyclops gave him the outfit. Begrudgingly, and only after Wade guilted him about how Nate wouldn’t even be alive if not for little ol’ Deadpool, but still, he gave it over. 

So when Wade plops himself on the edge of Nate’s desk, he has lots and lots of leg available for Nate to get an eyeful of. That _had_ been the original plan. He’d chickened out the first time, but this was a second chance.

Nate just keeps looking through documents, flipping from page to page with a slight frown on his face. He’s looking very relaxed-yet-presidential, polo shirt and slacks and utterly _normal_ in a Nate sort of way. Which is to say, a very large and very unusual half-organic-metal-man that Wade finds ridiculously attractive.

It’d be nice if Nate would get with the program and feel Wade up. Maybe box him in against the desk. Maybe let Wade go down on his knees and--

He quickly cuts off those thoughts and smooths down the skirt on the Marvel Girl outfit. Probably best not to pop a boner quite yet.

“Hey, Nate. Look what the X-Men gave me,” he says gleefully.

That finally gets Nate to glance up, and it looks like it was meant to be a quick glance that got captured and slowed and extended, Nate’s brain trying to get back to the part where he was going to look away except that first he needs to process what he’s seeing and it isn’t … quite … working.

Wade gets a slow blink of mismatched blue and white eyes.

“I think red suits you better,” Nate finally says.

Wade shoves out his lower lip in an outrageous pout. Because he agrees, actually, green and yellow really aren’t his colors, but dammit, Nate doesn’t have to _say_ it.

“You’re not supposed to say mean things when a girl shows off her new outfit!”

It’s at this moment that Irene opens the door and walks into the office, all high heels and long legs and power suit and business, simultaneously declaring, “Nate, it’s time for the staff mee--” She gets all of two and a half steps in before she falters. Comes to a complete stop. It looks like she’s also trying to process what she’s seeing, and doing a much worse job of it than Nate.

She blinks. She blinks again. Then scrunches her eyes tight shut for several seconds, as if hoping that she’s hallucinating and whatever bad trip her brain’s on will be gone when she opens her eyes.

She opens her eyes and then sighs the sigh of people who are not paid enough to put up with this bullshit.

“God, could you two _please_ keep the kinky role play out of the office? Some of us are trying to _work_ here!”

Nate sets down the papers and stands up in one smooth motion. Wade’s heart (and dick) do a little throb of delight at just how quickly and easily he can move, extra metal pounds be damned.

“Wade was just showing me a costume he got from the X-Men, and you’re quite mistaken about his intentions. Wade, I’m sorry, duty calls.”

As Nate hastily steers Irene out of the office, Wade frowns and considers whether he’s got the wrong ideas about what kind of skirt Nate wants to follow.


	2. Irene Merryweather

Take two, and this time Wade means business. He has the outfit. He has the attitude. He even put on the makeup, covering up some of the ugly and making sure to define his lips in that utterly sexy Chief-of-Staff-means-business way that Irene has about her.

He swings in through the window, and sticks the landing. Not bad for a guy in heels, not bad at all. He minces toward the desk. He would be striding, but, damn, there’s a reason women walk they way they do in these things.

Nate glances up, brow furrowed in this cute little confusion line, probably because his ears had told him _sounds like Deadpool_ but then the _click click click_ of heels hadn’t sounded anything like the boots he was expecting.

“Hiya, Nate,” Wade says brightly, rounding the desk and settling in his spot on the edge of the desk. It’s kind of sweet, honestly, because Nate has papers all over the fucking place on the desk--not in a big messy pile or anything, more like an OCD research librarian, neat stacks and file folders with labels and the occasional microdisk--but the left edge of the desk from his big executive chair to the corner is bare.

It warms Wade’s miserly little merc heart that Nate would keep that space available for him. Nate must really care.

That or he remembers the times Wade’s just shoved everything out of the way and possibly onto the floor when his favorite Nate-desk-perch was covered.

Either way, he settles into his spot, crossing his legs in his best Sharon Stone pose he can manage given he has nothing to lean on.

The skirt is Deadpool-red and cut slightly-above-the-knee short, which means Nate can get a good eyeful of his legs _again_. He suspects Nate isn’t even going to be paying much attention to the business-like shirt and artfully stuffed push-up bra and the bits of tasteful-yet-Deadpool-themed jewelry Wade’s added to the look.

“So, you said red was a better color on me. Whaddya think?”

Nate still looks confused, so utterly puzzled, eyes flicking here and there over Wade like he can’t figure out why his best platonic bud is perched on the edge of his desk in sexy lady clothes and makeup and a wig.

“Red is definitely your color, Wade, but I was thinking more about the suit. This is a little too...” he makes a vague gesture at his own face, eyes trailing over Wade’s face, lingering a second or two on bright Deadpool-red lipstick, “elaborate.

“And I have a meeting in less than half an hour. I’m sorry, Wade. Another time maybe?”

And then Nate doggedly turns his attention back to the topographical map he has unrolled in front of him.

For a second time in as many days, Wade pouts. Damn it. Fine. Too much. Maybe he should go to the opposite extreme.


	3. Wade Wilson Au Naturel

This time, Wade comes in through the door, scanning the office for El Presidente. For once Nate isn’t sitting at his desk; he’s over on the carpet near the big windows, facing the light. He's sitting in some sort of lotus pose except without the overly flexible leg business. Crossed legs, bare feet, upward-facing palms on his knees. Looks like Mr. Messiah is in the middle of a meditation break.

“What, can’t take a coffee break like the other mutant dictators?” he jokes as he strides over. “I bet Magneto takes coffee breaks.”

Nate takes a deep breath, eyes still closed, nostrils flaring slightly, and Wade idly wonders if Nate is breathing in the lingering scent of water and soap, or if that’s just him finding patience to deal with one more (Deadpool-sounding) thing. Otherwise he doesn’t stir.

“Wade.” The single word rumbles, amused and lightly warning and welcoming all in one.

“In the flesh. Very much in the flesh.” He nudges Nate’s discarded shoes and socks with a toe, then moves to flop down on one of the couches at this end of the office, the ones that flank the windows, making sure to keep one hand on the towel. He’s not trying to show too much unless he's sure Nate's into it.

His position on the couch gives him a great view of Nate. He’s lit with ambient sunlight, warm and still and relaxed, no hint of self-consciousness or irritation that Wade’s busted in on him. He finds his eyes have lingering on Nate’s face, worn past smoothness a long time ago, scars and the pale shadow of afternoon stubble and the lines that start to wear into a person’s skin from the frowns and smiles and fears of everyday living.

He really has no idea how old Nate is--he suspects Nate doesn’t either at this point--but from what he’s heard and read and seen and participated in himself, Nate’s old enough to have seen half or almost half of life and young enough to have no intention of letting that stop him.

And, god, what a face it is. Looking at it feels perfect. Perfect even though he knows it isn't. The bridge of Nate's nose is too high and too thick, with a hint of having been broken at least once, his hairline shrinking back too far from his temples, his jaw a bit too square and stubborn to be winning any celebrity beauty contests. But it doesn’t matter. With Nate’s eyes closed, his breathing steady and regular, Wade can take the time to stare, drinking up Nate’s features, drowning in how much he wants to run his thumb over the line of Nate’s mouth, learn what that stubble feels like under his lips.

Jeez. He’s got it _bad_.

He clears his throat, tries to sound suitably _not_ like he’s just been mooning over his best friend when he says, “Was wonderin’, can I borrow you for a quick zip ‘cross town?”

Nate finally opens his eyes and takes in the image of Wade sitting on his couch, one arm flung along the back, the other making sure the towel around his waist stays firmly in place.

Said towel is the only thing protecting Wade’s modesty right now.

It’s cute how he can actually get Nate to look confused. Mutant Jesus, know-it-all from the future who knows everything because he’s read every boring history book there is and read the plans right out of everyone's head, looking confused. Almost makes him want to laugh out loud. Although Nate’s gaze has flicked from Wade’s bare feet to chest to towel to arms and finally settled on his face with the intensely focused nonchalance of someone trying to keep their eyes in politely acceptable territory.

Wade’s got one foot crossed over the opposite knee, and he suddenly realizes that Nate’s angle is a little too close to getting an up-towel view. He quickly shifts to put both feet flat on the floor, because while he’s the last guy to care overly much about accidental nudity and other people’s feelings about it, he’s also trying to not be the creeper who flashes his dick at his crush. Nate relaxes fractionally, losing that strained look, so Wade’s pretty sure that was a good choice.

Bad Wade. Don’t scare off Nate with your scarred-up dick.

“Sorry, what?” Nate asks. Wow, apparently accidentally flashing Nate is enough to make him lose his concentration. At least he doesn’t look disgusted (which, honestly, is pretty normal for Nate). In fact, he still looks a bit like a man trying to act nonchalant. And his eyes are still flickering away from Wade’s face momentarily to chest and shoulders, and he does look curious and he doesn’t look disgusted.

Maybe this little experiment is actually going somewhere, unlike the two times with skirts. Go figure. And here he’d always figured Nate as more of a long-feminine-legs man instead of a manly-chest man.

“Can we slide back to my apartment? I’d rather not walk the whole way in a towel. Not an emergency, so thought I’d be _polite_,” like Nate keeps requesting, “and ask first.” And then on impulse, and he hates himself a moment later because it sounds like such a clichéd, lame attempt. “You could stay for a bit, have a beer. We could order take-out.” And if anything else happens while he’s naked in his apartment with Nate, well, that’s a bonus.

“What happened to your suit?”

Wade waves his free hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing much. Little accident with the napalm.” That’s why the shower--to wash off all the ash from burned suit and skin and meat, because otherwise the soot and the smell just _clings_ and that’s super gross. So gym shower it was, but when he came out he didn’t have a new suit or any clothes handy. Gee. Accidents do happen.

Nate is looking a little nervous, so he adds, “Johann has the fire under control.”

Nate gives the kind of long sigh that somehow manages to sound equally fond and exasperated.

He stands and walks to his desk, pulling some sort of future computer tech pad over and typing a few things. “I’ll teleport you, so I don’t have to use the bodyslide tech and can go check on Johann. Next time,” he says dryly as he stabs a button, “try not to incinerate parts of my island.”

“It was an accident!”

“I’m sure it was. Teleporting you now.”

As the room dissolves around him, Wade is sure his face is the picture of frustrated disappointment.


	4. When He Was Handsome

This requires some thought. Morose thought. The kind with several six-packs and the television and being awake at hours when normal people are fast asleep.

He’d started this as a way to amuse himself, to let the weird fluttering feelings dance around his guts while he tried to get Nate’s attention. It’s also, in a weirdly satisfying but painful way, a way to hurt himself, like raking nails over skin or letting himself get shot just because he knows it’s only going to hurt like hell instead of killing him. Usually if he lets someone see him, see the _real_ him, angry and crazy and horror-show skin, he knows they back the fuck off real fast.

But not Nate. No, never Nate. He doesn’t back away. (He doesn’t make it hurt like hell.)

But he isn’t exactly coming closer either.

What in the world is Nate’s problem? Wade throws back half a beer in frustration, giving a loud belch for emphasis. If he’s interested, Wade doesn’t know how much more of an engraved invitation Nate needs than a practically naked best friend asking him to bodyslide back to his apartment. Further “bodysliding” optional but definitely implied.

It _was_ definitely implied. Right?

Maybe it wasn't implied.

But a guy with a healthy sex drive and average imagination should have been able to connect the dots. And he's pretty sure Nate is actually a horny bastard, once you got past the uptight, world savior complex.

What else can he possibly do to get the point across?!

_You could actually ask him,_ a little voice whispers in his head.

He tells the voice to shut up, that’s just stupid.

No, he tells himself as he slams back the rest of the can, crushes it in the coffee table, and pulls another one out of the sealife-killing plastic rings, it had to have been obvious. So Nate was turning him down for some other reason.

Maybe it really was that he’d set a corner of the control tower on fire and Nate wanted to oversee the cleanup. Or maybe it was the fact that his outside is ugly enough to match the inside that he’s trying to change.

Too bad changing the inside doesn’t make the outside better, he thinks wistfully. Sort of a reverse Dorian Gray. Do good. Slowly get his looks back until he was saving orphans and puppies before breakfast, helping old mutant ladies cross the street by lunchtime, and was smoking hot. Ladies and mutant dictators would be lining up outside his door if he was mainstream sexy again, bye-bye creepy fetish fodder sexy.

And that gives him an idea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Providence is a hippy haven _and_ it's floating in the South Pacific. Of _course_ there's a beach. It's an artificial beach of course, a sloping shelf of metal covered with sand telekinetically hauled in from somewhere while Nate was still in his godlike issues, sun-warmed seawater piped up to create an artificial cove that laps at the sand and is packed with happy, splashing, yelling people.

It doesn't have waves, but it's still a pretty good beach, Wade thinks, as he kicks back in his beach chair and sips his lemonade. Sun. Sea. Sexy bikinis.

He's not drawing any attention because he's got the image inducer on. The red swim trunks are real, and so are the thin flip-flops, but the wrist watch is actually a sleek little image unit, and all the beautifully tanned and unblemished skin and brown hair he's displaying right now are a lie and a memory, throwback to another time and another life.

Wade glances at the watch. Even if it's just a holographic projection, it still tells time. Nate should be here in a couple minutes.

Since he's been on Providence, Wade has shadowed Nate. Watched him. Memorized his routine down to the minute. The reasons for this are a little fuzzy, even to him. Maybe he's just really interested in Nate. Maybe it's old merc habits, tracking a potential target's movements with the precise, obsessive, murderous energy that makes him _good_ at it. Even he's not sure. Blame a brain that doesn't always work as well as it should, that's the easy answer.

Regardless, he knows that today is one of the days when Nate takes a particular route on his afternoon walk through his domain, and that he'll be passing by any minute now.

So he stands, leaves the lemonade, and saunters over to the railing that separates the beach from the pedestrian path that curves along its sandy edge. He makes sure the swim trunks are just a little loose, riding low so the vee of pelvic bones is impossible to miss.

He's definitely trying for a little bit slutty.

He scratches absently at his chest. If what everyone saw were real, there'd be the wiry scratch of chest hair and the slightly slippery slide of too much suntan lotion. Instead he just feels ridges and bumps of scars and cancer, the sharp pain where a nail catches, tears skin, reheals in seconds. And he hadn’t actually bothered to put on sunscreen. After all, what can the sun do to him? Give him _more_ skin cancer? Ha!

And here comes Nate, slowing from a brisk walk as he comes to the edge of the beach. Tight t-shirt tucked into jeans, sneakers … someone’s really into their casual look today. As Nate gets closer, Wade grins and waves.

“Hey, sexy presidente!”

That gets Nate’s attention, his gaze sharp and wary. It’s not the fondness that’s Wade used to seeing settle around his eyes, none of the warmth or amusement or even the frustration, none of the familiarity or the acceptance, just a blank slate of wariness and polite curiosity and a hint of appraising interest. Because of course Nate doesn’t recognize him--after all, that’s the whole point.

It reminds him of back in the bad old days of Toliver and afterward, back when Nate didn't give two shits about warning Wade to back off before he ventilated his skull, back when Wade hadn't yet gotten sucked into feeling sympathy for anyone other than himself, much less the mutant X-Force leader he kept finding himself fighting.

It's a shock to realize just how _different_ it's become. How much he hadn't noticed the difference in how Nate looks at him now, how he feels about Nate now.

Wade shifts his hips, leans a little more languidly on the railing. Flashes a bright grin. Reminds himself to talk a little higher pitched, a bit different cadence. Plasters on mannerisms that aren’t his, because hiding his identity behind an image inducer and other people’s body language is how this game is played.

“Can I help you?” Nate asks politely, stopping a few feet away.

“Maybe. Or maybe I can help you. I’ve seen you around a lot, but you always look so _busy_. Don’t you get any time off for fun, running this place?”

Nate’s look is appraising, but with a hint of wariness, because everything in life is a battlefield to Nate, a potential trap, and Wade supposes he can’t really blame Nate from that, given what his back issues are like. Still, Nate’s eyes sweep the image presented him with increasingly blatant interest. Wade sees his gaze linger appreciatively on where the trunks meet flesh. Heh. He _knew_ Nate was a horny bastard.

“Did you have something in mind?” he asks.

“Your place? My place? I’m flexible,” and Wade gives a wink just in case the double entendre wasn’t clear enough.

But Nate frowns, frowns like he’s getting the definite feeling something isn’t right, squints like he's trying to bring something into focus. Is the image inducer glitching? Does Nate know something's wrong? Wade doesn't let a mixed up, stirred up set of emotions show on his face, gleeful at pulling one over on Nate, the beginnings of apprehension, because it’s possible he didn’t exactly think this through to the end.

"I'm sorry, have we met before?" Nate asks carefully.

"You could say that," Wade replies with a grin that's all teeth, too predatory for the part he's playing.

Nate keeps squinting, confusion and frustration warring in his expression, until suddenly he exclaims, "Wade!" And _there_ are all the complicated Wade-induced emotions in Nate’s face, crashing together all at once, confusion and happiness and outrage and something very strange and almost horrified that Wade doesn’t understand.

“In the fake flesh,” he says, still grinning.

“What … what-- Why are you-- What are you _doing_?”

Wow, he’s reduced Nate to stammering. He shrugs. “Doing just about what it looks like.”

“An image inducer?”

“Well _yeah_. I ain’t catching your attention lookin’ like normal.”

There’s a flash of something pinched and hurt on Nate’s face before outrage swamps it, swamps it and all the other emotions too. 

“What the hell, Wade!” he snarls, then turns and strides away quickly enough it almost counts as running away, leaving Wade to ponder that this was apparently an awful idea.


	5. Deadpool

Wade avoids dealing with the problems he’s caused for all of four days before he’s missing silver hair and rumbly voice too much. It’s uncharacteristic, and he knows it, but he might as well go face the music and apologize and hopefully get back in Nate’s good graces.

But he doesn’t have to be mature about it.

Which is why he doesn’t say a single word of greeting to Nate the next time he stomps into his office. Nate does glance up in surprise, pen held above whatever he was working on, and watches as the red and black intruder in his office heads straight for his couches. Wade is ignoring that paper-free edge of Nate’s desk, because he doesn’t _want_ to go sit down and pretend that everything is fine, that he isn’t quietly crushing on Mr. Big, Metal, and Sexy while he perches on the edge of that huge, solid desk and imagines a lot of better uses it could be put to than stupid _paperwork_.

So he pauses in front of the couches, takes a moment to undo the weapons harness, gently sets his sword down on the floor, and then flops lengthwise on the couch with a grumpy huff.

“Wade?”

He can see Nate out of the corner of his eye, pen still hovering over the paper, big bulk unmoving. It’s a little too much right now, so he groans and hides his eyes in the crook of his elbow.

“Look, I’m sorry I got all inappropriate, okay? Just give me a lecture or whatever and you can feel vindicated and we can pretend none of it ever happened,” he snaps.

Now he finally hears Nate move, the soft tap of the pen discarded on the desk, the squeak of the chair being pushed back, the pad and scuff of Nate’s shoes as he crosses the carpet. He feels himself tensing more and more with each step Nate takes toward him, until Nate pauses behind his head, at the end of the couch. Wade risks tipping his head back further over the armrest, peaking at the towering bulk of Nate from behind his arm.

Nate looks weirdly conflicted, soft and hurt in a way Wade doesn’t know how to interpret.

“It wasn’t the … intentions,” he says slowly. “It was the … manner.”

“Manners ain’t somethin’ I’ve got,” Wade growls, steadily growing more confused.

“No, no, I mean … trying to get my attention by being something you’re not.”

Wade moves his arm, letting it hang off the couch above his head, so he can crane his head back to stare at upside-down-Nate with the full look of confusion that this statement deserves.

“You don’t have to show up in a skirt, or half naked, although that one was quite … something, or wearing a false skin, to get my attention,” Nate continues quietly, and then he reaches.

Wade has a bunch of half-formed expectations of what Nate’s hand is going to do, with grab his throat and haul him upright being the most prominent. What he isn’t expecting is for Nate’s hand to gently cradle his cheek through the suit, thumb stroking in a way that Wade’s _sure_ means Nate can feel his scars through the thin fabric.

“What?” is all he can manage, flat and disbelieving.

“Also, red really is your color,” Nate says, and then he’s bending down, simultaneously sliding his metal hand over Wade’s suit-covered ribs and his mouth over Wade’s.

Wade doesn’t think too hard, just grabs with both hands around the back of Nate’s head, grabs and holds on in a daze with his fingers in Nate’s hair as Nate manages to kiss him senseless _through_ the suit. Which is a damn weird thing, feeling Nate’s tongue and lips press against the fabric, little traces and caresses of tongue through dampening spandex, while Nate’s thumb is still gently stroking his cheek and his metal hand is aggressively running up and down Wade’s side.

“Oh fuck,” Wade mutters shakily when Nate pulls his mouth away a scant inch. He can still feel Nate’s breath, little puffs of coolness as breath hits spit-damp fabric. “Oh fuck,” he repeats breathlessly, fumbling at the neck of the suit, pulling his mask up to his nose. Nate gives a little growl that sounds almost disapproving, but then he’s kissing Wade again, and it’s one of the top ten kisses Wade’s ever been part of, even with the weird angle. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves him panting and tingling all over and well on his way to achingly hard, and from the sounds Nate makes, Wade suspects he feels the same way.

“Didn’t picture you as Kirsten Dunst,” he pants when Nate pauses kissing him senseless long enough to take a couple strides that bring him around the edge of the couch. And then Nate is settling over him, big knee right between his legs, Nate’s other leg braced on the floor, one hand planted on the couch arm next to Wade’s head. This leaves Nate’s metal hand free to continue feeling him up, from shoulder to thigh, pausing only to fumble open the buckle on his belt, while Nate kisses him all over again, better angle, filthy intentions clear in his domineering tongue and playfully nipping teeth.

Wade blames the fact that all his blood is definitely _not_ in his brain right now for taking so long to realize it, but he finally figures out that Nate’s hand is very specifically tracing along where the red and black of the costume meet.

“I take it you … you like the suit?” he manages when Nate takes a break from his mouth and moves to working over his neck instead, nipping and sucking hard enough that Wade feels it leave a mark, feels it heal, and then feels Nate mark him up again.

Nate pulls back to stare him right in the eye, all intensity and flashing eye and everything.

“I like the suit. I like your skin,” he growls. “You don’t have to wear anything else to get my attention.”

“Oh fuck,” Wade whimpers, high pitched and desperate, as the metal hand skates lower, sliding toward the inside of one thigh.

“Can I touch you?” Nate asks.

“Yes!”

Nate makes a deeply satisfied noise and then that metal hand is pressing to Wade’s crotch, feeling him up through the spandex, and Wade had already been rock hard in his jock and the suit, but now he’s so hard his whole crotch is throbbing. Nate somehow manages to tug so that his cock slips past the top of the jockstrap, pressed hot and hard and leaking against his stomach inside the suit, and then squeeze.

Wade moans, like one of his fantasies, the ones where Nate is doing highly office-environment-inappropriate things to him on that big desk, hands scrabbling at Nate’s shoulders. Which reminds him ...

“Irene … gonna walk in on us again …” he pants.

And Nate nods and says “bodyslide by two” and suddenly they’re on a bed. Nate’s bed from the size of it and the smell of it, light scents of metal and sweat and sheets that have absorbed the funk of a big man sleeping naked in them. Not that Wade is paying too much attention to that, because Nate is rolling them, getting Wade on top of him, using the position to get both hands on Wade’s ass and rock him against the really quite impressive bulge in Nate’s business-casual-dictator slacks of the day.

Wade fumbles at Nate’s fly, curses the angle, decides patience is overrated and just yanks. He hears a couple threads snap and the zipper complain as the button and a couple inches of fly pop open. It’s a second’s work to pull the zipper further down, to shove his hand down inside Nate’s briefs--whoops, maybe he should have asked first, but the way Nate groans and thuds his head back against the sheets implies it’s more than fine--and get his hand around Nate’s cock. Hot and the softness of skin over throbbing hardness, and Wade imagines all the things he wants this cock to do to him and moans.

Then lets out a startled noise when Nate flips them again, flips them and pins Wade under his hips. They’re crotch-to-crotch, dick-to-dick, Wade’s legs spread so Nate can settle between them.

“Is this okay?” he asks, sounding strung out and turned on and very, _very_ interested.

“Yeah, this is okay, fine, great, wonderful, stupendous,” Wade gasps, trying to yank Nate’s shirt out of his pants, then chokes on whatever adjective he was going to use next as Nate lowers his bulk down until he’s resting on elbows and hips, boxing Wade in, pinning him down, rocking his hips to slide that big dick against the bulge in Wade’s costume. “But, aren’t you … uh … oh fuck … forgetting the getting naked part?” he manages.

“Not forgetting,” Nate snorts, bites at the side of his neck, the bottom of his ear and rolls his hips again. “I’ll get you naked soon, I _like_ you naked, but I’ve spent months watching you walk around in this suit. Do you know how _good_ you look in it?” A hand squeezes Wade’s ass in emphasis.

“Yeah, I know, one of the best asses in spandex,” Wade pants, bucking up as much as he can under Nate’s astonishing amount of bulk, managing to get his hands under the shirt and on Nate’s side. Firm muscle on one side, hard metal on the other.

“_The_ best,” Nate assures him, as if he’s totally serious, still rocking, long slow slides of dick against dick through a layer of rapidly soaking through spandex.

“Oh, _someone’s_ got a kink for the Deadpool suit,” Wade singsongs breathlessly, then curses when Nate’s mouth gets right down at the collar of the suit, licking and mouthing in a filthy, animalistic, sex-drunk way. “You’re the one who… who… fuck, like that,” and Nate obligingly rocks in short, hard thrusts, his own breath quickening and arms trembling, “who gets to hand… handwash the… the spunk out of it,” Wade pants.

Nate groans and buries his head in the crook of Wade’s neck and it’s really not long at all before they’re both coming, grasping each other, rutting against each other through it.

Nate finally leverages himself off. Flops on his side and makes a rueful face while glancing down. Wade has to agree, because the inside and outside of the suit are both an absolute mess, soaked through and sticking to him.

Gross.

But worth it.

Now that Nate’s got his rocks off, Wade doesn’t know what Nate’s going to feel, until Nate leans in and kisses him, slow and contented and ever so smug.

“Just checking,” Wade says as soon as he can. “This wasn’t some kinky way of having sex without having to touch my skin. Right?”

“Of course not,” Nate says, stroking a hand across Wade’s jaw and throat as if to solidify the point. “Let me strip the suit off you, and I’ll show you just how much I like your skin in the shower.”

“Deal,” Wade says instantly, yanking Nate in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm so happy that I managed to break out of the writer's block for a little bit, and I hope you enjoy the result. And again, happy (belated) birthday, SenkoWakimarin, I especially hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (And I'm also withoutaconscienceorafilter on tumblr, if you're into that sort of thing.)


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